


Summer Drabbles/oneshots

by Mistressaq



Series: Small Projects [1]
Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F, Friendship, Lesbian AU, Multi, Polyamory, Post breakup shalaska, Prompts Welcome, Rare Pairings, Sick Character, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-07-11 18:45:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19932769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistressaq/pseuds/Mistressaq
Summary: Im doing a bunch of drabble prompts to satisfy my need to write for when i cant work on my multichaps so submit prompts in comments or via tumblr @ mistressaq





	1. “What are You Wearing?” (Raja/raven/manila)

Submitted by an anonymous user on Tumblr

* * *

“You like?” Raja gently twirled her hips so her novelty skirt would fan out.

“Its... something.” Raven stared down hundreds of interconnected plastic eyes. One of her girlfriend’s most recent thrift store finds. Imagine someone wanting to throw it out.

Raven tried to cover her hatred for the garment, but Raja doubled over, belly-laughing like a madwoman. “Oh my god your FACE!” Raja cackled.

From elsewhere in the home, Manila shouted “How’d she like the skirt?!”

“Oh you _gotta_ come in, ‘Nil, her face is fucking PRICELESS!” Footsteps sounded through the hall while Raja tried to get a hold of herself. “Okay but really,” she sniggered. Manila appeared to rest an elbow smugly on Raja’s shoulder. “Really, though, Rave, tell— tell us what you think.”

Manila shot Raven a look over her half-circle spectacles. “And I picked it out for her, so,” she paused. “Take that into account.”

Raven pressed her plump lips into a line. “It’s... after the first, like, initial shock of just...” she motioned toward the garment in question. “If anyone could pull it off, it would be you.”

“Aww!” Exclaimed Raja. She looked sideways at Manila and said “It was fun when she hated it.”

Manila nodded.

“God,” Raven breathed. “What even is that? Some kind of— where’d you find this, Nil? Fucking eyeball beaded fringe skirt.” She reached out and took a handful of what could scarcely be called fabric. “This isn’t a skirt, it’s a fucking beaded curtain with an elastic holding it together.”

Manila laughed and beamed with pride. “Saw it while I was raiding the costume bin at work and thought, oh, I am willing to get fired for this, I’m taking it.”

Raven clucked. “I hope you get fired.”

Raja spun in her horrible travesty of a skirt while her girlfriends playfully bickered around her.

It wasn’t until Raven slid her strong hands around Raja’s hips that Raja stopped spinning.

“One thing I will say about this skirt,” Raven began, tucking her face into Raja’s neck. “Is I can’t wait to rip it off her.”

A warm rumble tore from behind Raja’s breastbone down through her torso, stopping between her legs as the feeling wound its way all the way to her toes. She reached a hand around Raven’s shoulders to curl around the hairs at the back of her neck.

“I mean,” Manila lifted off from where she’d been leaning on the wall. “I can certainly help with that.”


	2. Bikers! But without bikes! (Brooke/scarlet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Light smut and fluff motivated by jealousy because we love that sometimes

Brooke and Scarlet are bikers suggested by OhNoes in comments!

interpreted this as Scar ran away from her moms biker gang to join Brooke at her biker bar roadhouse in probably Tenessee

* * *

Scarlet had something she was excited about. She bounced on her heels as she wiped down the sticky bar at the end of the night. She was doing that thing with her back— poking out her tits and ass. It got the customers’ attention, alright; Brooke noticed Scarlet’s swollen tip pocket with a territorial sneer. It wasn’t admirable, the way Brooke’s guts boiled watching patrons eye up her girl. The way their eyes glossed over watching her pass. Their sickly tongues swiping across their lips, looking at Scarlet like she was a full course meal, all for them to enjoy. 

Brooke tossed a towel over her shoulder and let out a hiss. She wanted a cigarette. Instead, she siezed Scarlet by the waist when she passed, hauled her past the doors into the back of Brooke’s biker bar. The girl gave a soft, surprised shriek at being man-handled. When Brooke pinned her to the grungy wall, though, the redhead let out a gleeful giggle. 

“Thought I told you to be careful.” Brooke’s hand caressed Scarlet’s pink cheek softly, but her voice was harsh. “Thought I warned you about the kind of characters that lurk around in places like this.” She curled her hand from the girl’s cheek to the back of her head, scratching her nails into Scarlet’s scalp. 

Scarlet’s face contorts with the wave of pleasure that rips out from where Brooke has her by the hair. One slender leg rises, instinctively trying to create friction and movement between her legs. Brooke smacked Scarlet’s knee back down. “Whores like you, parading yourselves around, you tease those creeps, make them want you, make them think you want them.” Brooke forced Scarlet’s neck to bend at an uncomfortable angle as she snarled into the girl’s ear. “You forget who you belong to.”

The girl is shuddering beneath her, her chest rising and falling quickly, her eyes closed and her mouth open in ecstacy. Brooke let go of Scarlet’s hair, only to grab her by the jaw, her fingers biting into Scarlet’s soft cheeks, her soft red lips puckering under Brooke’s grip. “You need a reminder?” Sneered the older woman. 

Scarlet shook her head, as much as she could, with Brooke’s hand on her chin. “Y-you—“ she stammered. “I belong— to you.”

“That’s right.” Brooke smiled, releasing the girl’s face, letting her hand trail down her neck, already pinkening with her arousal. “So you’re gonna reserve yourself in front of the customers, yes?” She asked, trailing a fingernail over Scarlet’s nipple under her top. Scarlet panted, nodding. Brooke began to roll the pink nub between her fingers as she continued to speak against Scarlet’s neck. “Now your Mommy can’t protect you,” Brooke husked. “Time to grow up.”

Scarlet’s long lashes batted open, illustrious green eyes full of want. Want for Brooke— the older woman felt that look shoot straight to her core. “You’re right,” Scarlet murmured. “Left my protector behind, back in Kentucky.” The girl found strength return to her legs as she stood up straight. She took Brooke by the hip and spun them so it was Brooke backed against the wall. “You know what, though?” she drawled, her hands on the wall beside Brooke’s head boxing her in. “Who needs her?” She pressed a kiss to Brooke’s lips, achingly soft, pulling away too soon. Scarlet replaced her mouth with her thumb pressed to Brooke’s lips. “Why behave?” She wondered aloud. “When I have you to protect me.”

A growl erupted from Brooke’s throat and she again grabbed Scarlet by the waist, this time flinging the girl further into the back room. The fryer was on, and Scarlet knew enough to make the area safe before Brooke drove all thoughts from her mind once more. Backed against a stainless steel counter, Brooke grabbed at Scarlet’s flesh with hungry hands. She dove into Scarlet’s ear and jaw with her teeth, fumbling with her hands to remove the girl’s shirt. 

Scarlet whipped off her top without delay, tossing it back toward the door, away from any lasting fire hazards. She reached down the front of Brooke’s pants, letting out a sinful moan. 

Brooke only paused her nibbling long enough to husk, “Shouldn’t have got me so worked up. Perky little ass and tits of yours.”

Scarlet’s mouth widened into a lust-drunk grin, her legs opening themselves for Brooke as she put her own fingers to work against the older woman’s folds. “Worked, didn’t it?” she panted.

“Shut the fuck up.” Brooke started going in on Scarlet’s back with her nails, but the redhead pressed her unoccupied hand against Brooke’s sternum. 

“No— I mean, fuck.”

Brooke’s hands immediately paused. She craned her neck to look Scarlet in the face. “Why? What is it?”

“Didn’t mean to ruin the mood, but,” Scarlet bit her lip. “Just, be gentle with the left shoulder.” More blush rose to her cheeks. “I’ve got a new tattoo healing.”

“When?!” Brooke gasped. 

Scarlet hid her face slightly. “Couple days ago… you did tell me to treat myself!”

The girl, and yes she was twenty-four, but Scarlet was very much still a girl, acted as if Brooke was going to chew her out, punish her. Like a mother would. Instead, Brooke spun Scarlet on the counter so she could get a better look. It was black line-art of… something. “It’s…” her voice trailed off. 

Scarlet turned back around, smiling. “Optimus Prime.”

Brooke blinked. “Mm-hm?”

Scarlet laughed, curling her hands around Brooke’s neck, resituating herself so she was ready to resume finger-fucking each other. She kicked her feet in the air. “Yeah, so bite me, scratch me, bruise me, mark me as your own. Just be gentle with Optimus.” 

Brooke shifted closer, winding her left hand around Scarlet’s hip and letting her right hand ghost over the ridges and valleys of the girl’s healing tattoo.

“What’d I say?” Scarlet asked, checking just to make sure, since Brooke had mostly been staring at her lips the past few minutes. 

Brooke pressed a long kiss to Scarlet’s collarbone. “Gentle with Opulence.”

Scarlet giggled, weaving her fingers together behind Brooke’s neck. Brooke’s palm wandered down her tummy again, dipping below her waistline. 

Scarlet shivered. “You’re not mad at all?” she asked.

“‘Course not,” Brooke said into Scarlet’s chest. “‘M not your mother.”

Scarlet let out a wry laugh. “Thank God for that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave me drabble prompts bc theres no telling how long my computer will be at the shop


	3. Tantrums and Graffiti (shalaska)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> set in an au post shalaska breakup and several years apart. Alaska has a flat tire and it’s her ex to the rescue

Thanks to dane for the suggestion

* * *

Alaska pounded her fists against the hood of her VW beetle, leaving dents in the powder blue painted metal. “Mother! Fuck! Fucking! Fuck!” Her screams came from her chest, her eyes welling up and her throat clenching up. 

Falling to her bare knees on the filthy tarmac of the off ramp, the slim, blonde twenty-six-year-old began to weep on the hood of her vintage beetle. 

This fucking day. This horrible, cursed, worst day of her life. It started when she pierced her toast at breakfast. Wanting some whole, she’d decided to toss the last slice of bread into the toaster. The toaster, which had malfunctioned, swallowing her breakfast and belching up black smoke instead. The fire alarm had gone off while she’d been in the bathroom, doing her makeup. She’d been on mascara. At the high pitched shrieking of the alarm, Alaska had stabbed the side of her mascara want into her eye, probably scratching her cornea. Half blind, she’d groped around the apartment to find the smoking demon toaster and unplug it. This, just as the sprinklers kicked on. In a move that would have been hilarious if it werent such a disaster, Alaska, with her six feet and three inches, somehow managed to trip on the cord hanging from the toaster in her hands, stumbling over a flea market rug and smacking her face right into the wooden corner of her secondhand couch. The side of her face thrummed with heat, and she felt certain she was gonna have a black eye to cover by the time she went to her job interview at four. Sitting on the floor in pain, being sprayed by the sprinklers, cradling her painful face in her hands, Alaska wondered just how this morning could have gone so bad so quickly.

Oh mama, did she not even know what was to come.

Another car slowed down a ways away and pulled to the side of the access road. Someone stuck their head out of their window and asked if she was injured. If they got close, they might see the badly hidden black eye she had forming on her right side, and her left eye, which leaked an almost constant stream of saltwater. She didnt know what to say, so she merely raised a thumbs-up and hoped the good samaritan would go away. He didnt.

“Have you called triple a?” He asked.

Alaska decided covering the black eye would be the best course of action. She lifted her face to the left and said no she hadn’t. She didnt have triple a. Because she was a no good idiot being punished for God-knows what. He asked if he could call someone for her, and while she refused at first, looking at the graffiti on the side wall of the interstate… “Actually,” she said, lifting her whole head. The guy registered her reddish-purple eye but didnt say anything, thankfully. 

She lifted herself to her feet. “Actually there may be someone.” Because fuck, this day was already such a fucking disaster why not? Why not call up the least responsible person she knew? Why not call the one person she knew who was the least likely to pick up her phone, let alone actually fucking show up for her. Someone who had let Alaska down so many times she was lucky Alaska still shot her the occasional friendly DM. 

The last person whose phone number Alaska had memorized. As she plugged the numbers into the strangers phone and sent off a text, she couldnt help the racing in her chest. 

**This is alaska. Im gonna call you from this number. Pick up.**

She was still sulking on her apartment floor when her landlord pounded on her front door. Alaska put on her bravest face as she dragged herself off the floor to remove the chain from the door. Her landlord already had a key, and was talking at her through the crack as she approached. About how it was her alarm that set off all the other alarms and how the fire department came and she was going to be responsible for the fee. So. In addition to being over a hundred dollars behind on rent from last month, she had another fee to pay of another couple hundred dollars. Which she would pay with the money from the job she didnt have. After applying all over, at thirty different places, today was her first actual interview. 

Which she had been excited for. After Alaska had said enough of the right things to the landlord, she had turned around and laid face down on the filthy rug that smelled like diesel. There she remained for the next two hours, before finally working herself into a sitting position, eventually standing to go get dressed for her interview.

Good samaritan guy’s name was Cliff. She thanked Cliff while she held his phone to her ear and waited for her call to be picked up. “You do this often?” she asked him. “Taking pity on miserable girls? This an average Thursday for you?”

Cliff gave a good natured smile at Alaska’s attempt to lighten the mood, and an answer was half out of his mouth when she heard a throaty cough through the speaker. 

“Hello?” Alaska asked, her whole body suddenly at attention. “Sharon?”

The familiar voice exhaled roughly, but when she spoke next, there was a smile in her voice. “Fancy this,” Sharon said. “Hearing your voice again. How long’s it been?”

Alaska folded her arms across her chest. “A while,” she said a bit too quickly. “Look, I’m calling ‘cause I’m broken down on the exit 272 offramp, is there any chance you could—“

“I’ll be right there.”

Alaska stopped in her tracks. “You- you will?”

A mattress squeaked in the background. Fabric shifted. “I will,” she confirmed. “Just give me fifteen. What is it— flat tire or something else?”

Alaska felt some of the anxiety in her chest melt away. “Just a flat, yeah.”

“‘Kay then I’ll bring my tools from the garage. You keep a spare, right?”

“I— I dunno.” Alaska nibbled at her cuticles, gazing up at the overcast sky.

On the other side, Sharon snickered. “Guess we’ll find out then.”

Alaska pulled her hand out of her mouth. “Guess we will.”

“See you in fifteen.”

“Okay,” Alaska breathed. “Bye.”

“Bye, Lasky.”

Alaska handed Cliff’s phone back almost robotically. That nickname… brought her back. She looked at the graffiti again. Noted the spraypaint scribble in the lower right corner. Remembered a hand on her waist, black paint on her fingers, lips pressed to her ear, giggles in the dark.

Cliff asked if Alaska wanted him to stick around while she waited for her ‘friend’. She said no but thanks. 

When he drove away, Alaska’s hand went to her phone in her back pocket, ridges of broken glass scratching against her palm. She sighed, suddenly remembering how boring waiting used to be before smartphones. It was too muggy to wait inside the cab, so Alaska reclined against the trunk of her car and occupied herself by watching the cars that passed by. 

Eleven white, seven black, and fourteen grey/metallic cars passed before Alaska felt her heart soar for the first time in a long time. She watched the unmistakable jet black hearse approach the exit, threw her fists in the air, jumped up and down watching Sharon’s truck slow down as it rolled toward her. She was still bouncing on the balls of her feet when a black combat boot planted itself on the gravel to the side of the road. Its twin soon followed, along with a head of messy, damaged black hair, growing out from blonde roots. Sharon had thrown on a dark lip and opaque aviators, which undoubtedly hid layers of bags under the woman’s overtired blue eyes. Her skin was still pale, the rays of sunlight that leaked from between the clouds above likely the only sun she’d seen in days, if not weeks. Nevertheless, it was impossible for Alaska to not take notice of the changes that her ex’s body had gone through: her hips widening, where she used to be all angles; her cheekbones protruding a little higher than they used to; faint frown lines had etched themselves into her forehead. Other than that, she was a grown-up version of the goth-punk teenager she used to be. Where Sharon used to be fishnets and spiked bracelets, now she wore black jeans and an oversized black and white tee, tucked into the front of her pants. Alaska wondered as she crossed the last ten feet between the two of them, if Sharon was noticing her the same way.

Suddenly self-consious, Alaska lowered her outstretched arms, debating if Sharon would be okay with hugging her, since she was kinda sweaty from the heat that the clouds trapped close to the ground. 

“Stop thinking so loud, Lask.” Sharon gave a smirk and held out her arms. “I know you’re a hugger.”

Alaska felt instant relief as she curled her arms around Sharon’s sides. The other woman was familiar and yet not. She smelled slightly different. Yes there was the choking odor of cigarettes, and Alaska did feel a little disappointed that Sharon was still smoking. There was also something else, something… rustic?

After a friendly three-second embrace, Alaska pulled back and swiped stray hairs from her face. “Sorry if I’m sweaty,” she said. “I’ve been outside for like forty minutes.”

Sharon nodded and stuck her fingers in her jean pockets. “It’s cool. And you know I havent been outside for more than the ten minutes it takes to fingerblast a hot blonde behind a dumpster in months.” 

Alaska erupted with a laugh that she hadn’t heard from herself in a very long time. Sharon had that satisfied, proud smile she always got when she managed to make Alaska laugh. After a pause, Sharon reached for Alaska’s cheek. “What happened there?” 

Alaska flinched on impulse, immediately regretting it when Sharon dropped her hand back into her pocket. With a sigh, she confessed, “It has been a _very_ long day.”

“And its just past lunchtime,” added Sharon.

“Or breakfast, for you.” The quip came out harsh, and Alaska winced.

Looking away, Sharon asked if there was anyone Alaska needed her to beat up.

Alaska let out a tired chuckle. “Just some unfortunately placed furniture.”

Sharon nodded and made her way over to Alaska’s beetle, dragging her pink fingers over where the blonde had gone Donkey Kong on the hood. “What happened here?” asked Sharon. “Angry squirrel?”

Alaska pursed her lips and shrugged. 

Sharon hummed in contemplation before saying under her breath, “So we’re still punching things when we’re angry, okay.”

Alaska rolled her eyes, quickly recovering. “The trunk’s open. I don’t know where to look for a spare, though.” She was surprised to hear her customer service voice come out, but she guessed it was appropriate on some level.

Sharon turned back to her and raised an eyebrow, but let it slide. Alaska was stressed and just trying to get back on track. Sharon didnt blame her. Unfortunately, there arent a wealth of places to hide a spare tire in a volkswagen beetle, and it wasn’t where it was supposed to be, so Sharon closed the trunk and prepared to give Alaska the bad news. “So, no spare,” she said. And, surprisingly — or not that surprisingly, Sharon realized as she remembered Alaska’s temperament while they were together, though she’d expected Alaska to have grown out of her meltdowns by now — the adult woman before her let out a choked sob before crouching in the gravel. Her face reddened and contorted, and she covered her eyes with her hands as she let out this awful wailing noise. 

Yeah, it was coming back to her now; Sharon was remembering the famous Alaska Tantrums of their youth. Face down on the pavement, flailing fists and feet like the overgrown toddler that she was. And yet, still knowing this, seeing Alaska break down in front of her again… it tugged at her cold, black, heart. She found herself squatting down beside Alaska, resting a hand on her heaving shoulders. “Hey…” Sharon tried to say in a kind, compassionate voice. She hadn’t seen Soft Sharon in a while. The actions felt unfamiliar. “It’s gonna be alright, you’ll see.” 

Alaska’s response actually _did_ surprise Sharon. She lifted her head and heaved in a short breath. “I know,” she whimpered. “I know it will, just…” her face wrenched with another sob. “Today’s just been really— really hard.”

When Bratty Alaska had shown up in the past, there was no talking to her, no reasoning with her. But this… Alaska… said what she was feeling and what she was having trouble with?! Sharon was tempted to ask, Who are you and what have you done to Alaska? but she sensed that might not be the best road to take while her ex-girlfriend was still going between crying and trying to get ahold of herself. At a loss for what to say, Sharon just rubbed Alaska’s back, between her shoulders as she tried to calm down. Meanwhile, Sharon took the liberty of calling a towtruck. 

Hearing her on the phone with the company, Alaska let out another string of sobs. Sharon could only give the information to the administrator and squeeze Alaska’s shoulder. Once she’d hung up with the towing company, Sharon clapped a hand down on Alaska’s shoulder, putting an end to the pity party. It was getting annoying. “Okay,” she dictated. “What’s up.”

Alaska hiccuped, wheezing. “My— my car and my— my phone, scratched my eye d—doing my, my makeup— gotta pa— gotta pay the, the, the landlord another three hundred bucks and I’m already buh-behind and, and, and now, I gotta pay a towtruck!”

“It’s okay,” Sharon tried. “You can just have them call you for billing info later if you don’t have any cash—“

“MY PHONE IS FUCKED!” Alaska wailed, pulling out the mass of plastic and broken glass from her back pocket. 

“Jesus Christ, Lask!” Sharon exclaimed. “What’d you do— send it down a garbage disposal?”

Alaska whined in response. “Dropped a toaster on it.”

“Fuck.” Sharon shook her head. “Well I’ll give them my number when they come… and then I can get you wherever you need to go.”

Alaska sniffled “Downtown.”

Sharon hissed, shaking her head. Then she swallowed. “You know what? Yeah. Yes, I’ll even take you downtown if that’s where you—“

Sharon was cut off by Alaska throwing her arms roughly around her frame. Sharon patted Alaska’s arm. “Can’t breathe.”

Alaska let go, breathing slowly to try and get herself together, even though her eyeliner was gonna need some serious cleanup. She had some at home. Fuck, Sharon realized. Home. She couldn’t let Alaska step foot in her house—if it could be called that. It was more of a studio apartment but on the ground. She was basically living in a double-wide, though she’d seen double-wides far nicer than the hovel she lived in. She pictured it now: all the discarded beer bottles, dirty clothes and cigarette ash flicked everywhere. If Alaska saw — which she wouldn’t if Sharon had her way — she’d say something about Sharon living in an ash tray. Every surface was sticky, but Sharon had no memory of how it got to be that way. She hadn't seen her floors in probably a year. 

“Wanna at least sit in the hearse while we wait?” Sharon offered after about five minutes. “We can at least have A/C.”

Alaska agreed, and soon enough, she was breathing in through the window of Sharon’s truck, preferring the smell of highway to the smell of cigarettes and loneliness. One carcinogen over another, as far as Sharon saw it. _We’re all dying anyway._

Alaska hadn’t liked when she talked like that. Maybe she shouldn’t be so in her memories right now, but in truth, Alaska was the last person Sharon had truly let in. There’s been others— lots of hookups, enough for Sharon to have herpes inside her left cheek and a penicillin allergy. She doesn’t know her number, truthfully. She wonders what Alaska’s number is now.

She cleared her throat. “So,” she dragged her fingers through her hair. “What’ve you been up to? Since last we talked.”

Alaska took a breath. “Uh, college. You know. Graduated this spring.”

“Yeah I saw that on Insta,” offered Sharon. 

Alaska nodded. 

“Did you… do anything special? You know— to celebrate.”

Alaska let out a wry laugh, as if she made a joke in her mind. Sharon could guess what it would have been. Where was that towtruck?

Alaska said she and a bunch of friends went out that night to celebrate. “You’ll like this— I woke up on the cement floor of an abandoned building the following morning.”

Sharon gasped, an impressed smile clear on her black-painted lips. “Look at you!” She exclaimed, shoving Alaska’s arm playfully. 

Alaska shook her head, smiling. “Yeah.”

“So who’s your fun friend?” Sharon probed.

“What do you mean?”

Sharon rolled her eyes. “I mean obviously partying in a cool place wasn’t _your_ idea, so which one of your friends’ ideas was it?”

Alaska looked vaguely confused, before registering Sharon’s shade. “Oh, God, and hey— who says I’m not fun!”

Sharon raised her palms innocently. “I’m just asking.”

Alaska gave a beleaguered sigh. “Willam, okay? It was Willam who told us to go trespassing.” Sharon clapped her hands and cackled. “We were playing hide and seek in the dark and I fell asleep in my hiding place.”

Sharon rested her cheek on her hand. “And where was your hiding place?”

“Under some big sheets of plywood,” said Alaska. “Made kinda like a teepee, you know? Secure from the rest of the chaos.”

“Sounds like your kinda place.” Sharon looked down, still smiling.

Alaska cleared her throat. “So, you? Work, friendships, relationships?”

Sharon looked for a tell in Alaska’s eye at that last mention of _relationships._ Alaska wouldn’t meet her gaze, so she had to just talk. And for once she didnt have to lie. “I bartend,” she said.

“Really?” Alaska seemed pleasantly surprised. “You?”

“What, does that not sound like me?” asked Sharon wryly. 

_“Customer service?”_ Alaska said. “No, you and customer service— I wouldn't put together.”

“Yeah well, where I work has a kind of vibe.” Sharon hummed, drumming her thumbs on the steering wheel. “No one’ll get mad if I mouth off every so often. Hell, some of ‘em like it.” She kept hoping to see the outline of a towtruck sweeping along the highway. She did see a few, only for them to pass by the exit that led to the lesbian exes in the hearse. 

“That’s good, at least.” Alaska swept some of her hair behind her ear. “Sounds like a good fit for you.” Sharon only nodded, and to fill the silence, Alaska asked, “You ever run into interesting characters at work?”

Sharon gave a chuckle. “I _am_ an interesting character,” she said. “My boss dresses in corsets every day over her clothes, has this bloodred hair that hits her waist, these tits that are real, I swear, I can tell a Satan-given pair of knockers when I see ‘em.”

Alaska was laughing again, a sound that wrapped a hand around Sharon’s heart and squeezed. “Does Busty Redhead have a name?”

“I don’t know her legal name,” Sharon acknowledged. “At work she goes by Ginger.”

“Wha’d you mean you don't know her real name?” questioned Alaska. “Who signs your paychecks?”

“You know I can’t read cursive,” said Sharon. “Public school, remember?”

“Me too, remember?” Alaska sat back in her seat. 

Sharon scoffed. “Yeah, public school _in New England!”_

“It’s like the same thing!”

Sharon’s voice was getting tight. “Obviously not!”

“‘Kay.” Alaska held up her palms, dropping the subject. “So, working at a bar, you must meet a lot of people.” 

Sharon gave her a wary side-eye, which Alaska missed on account of her still wearing her giant aviator sunglasses inside the hearse. 

“Anyone ever…” Alaska talked with her hands, making a rolling motion with her pointer fingers. “Stick around?”

Sharon pressed her thumb to her temple and her pointer finger to her forehead. “‘Anyone ever stick around’.” She echoed alaska, her voice flat. “No.”

“Never?”

“You seem surprised.”

“Just…” alaska shrugged. “I guess, yeah. Have you been pushing people away, maybe?”

Sharon took in a deep breath. “I just don't think I need a relationship at this point in my life, you know? Like with my job, if I want sex, I get it, but anything…” she fished for a word. “Deeper,” she shook her head. “Nah.” After a beat of silence, she lifted an eyebrow at a contemplative Alaska. “You?”

Alaska floundered, stammering for a bit before she evidently decided to cut the shit. The lie she was crafting was taking too long. Finally, she answered in simple terms: “She dumped me today.”

_“Wow,”_ Sharon felt her jaw sliding open. Alaska’s eyes got wet and reflective, but it was clear in her face that she’d cried enough today. “This really is a shit day for you, isn’t it?!” Remarked Sharon.

Alaska started giggling, cackling maniacally and nodding. “It sure is!”

Sharon shook her head in amazement. “I mean I’ve gotten blitzed, been beaten within an inch of my life, arrested, and hospitalized within like 48 hours before and that doesn’t even compare to your day today.”

Alaska paused, still half-laughing at the absurdity of her misfortune. “You got beat up? When did that happen?”

“Oh, about two years ago, it’s fine.” Sharon shrugged it off as if she was talking about getting turned down by a girl. 

Alaska tilted her head to the side, her kind brown cow-like eyes full of honesty. “Shar?” She asked. “Are you doing okay?”

Sharon nodded firmly. “Not gonna lie, it was rough for a while, but working at Ginger’s roadhouse has actually straightened me up.” She paused. “Not literally straightened me—“

Alaska burst out laughing.

“I’m still very much into women,” Sharon reassured her. 

Alaska nodded, gasping through giggles, “Good.”

“I mean, obviously.” Sharon held out her natural, short clipped nails and Alaska howled with laughter.

“Oh fucking finally!” Sharon exclaimed at the sight of their tow truck pulling down the exit ramp towards them. 

Alaska let out a disappointed whine. “I was having fun.”

Sharon shot a smile back to Alaska. “I’m not abandoning you,” she said. “I’m giving my info to your tow truck guy and then I’m your personal cheauffer.”

“Really?” asked Alaska reverently. “You’re serious?”

“Sure am,” said Sharon as she closed the door behind her. “Just lemme talk to this guy first.”

If Alaska had known where she’d be today on the night she and Sharon had graffiti’d that wall, she would have made some different decisions in the interim.

And Alaska didn't know this, but so would Sharon


	4. Rivals! On Ice! (Brooke/violet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which brooke and violet are long time figure skating rivals and it’s the last competition before they both age out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter than yesterday, and i played with present tense for once!

Suggested by ohknows

* * *

Brooke needs to win this competition. It’s her last chance. She has to.

Yes there’s a league for over 18s but she’s closer to the title now than she’s ever been. And joining a new league is just jumping into a pool of bigger fishes. Right now, she’s the one to beat. 

Well.

Not the only one.

And that’s the problem.

Brooke is precise. She’s disciplined. The ice is her home. It’s the one place she feels, where she _knows_ she belongs. Her skates are worn almost to no longer passing regulation, but she’s gotten the okay for this competition. Her last. 

She stretches her leg on a railing, getting off on the pull in her muscles, the release of tension. There’s still three performers ahead of her.

Her category is solo. She does about the same with a partner, but solo, she allows herself to be spontaneous. Of course, her spontaneity never impresses the judges— they can’t tell if a Hytes move is improvised or not. All her movements are poised, graceful, likely her ballet training leaking over into her figure skating. So what’s kept her from winning the title of Junior Champion for the past five years?

As one judge wrote eighteen months ago: “blandness.” Another, at Nationals the year before last: “lack of a sense of passion behind the eyes.” Just four months ago, at Regionals: “Hytes’ technique is impeccable, even if personal style and personality are lacking.”

Those words crafted the bat that Brooke used for weeks to bludgeon herself, working herself to collapsing. She learned to plaster a smile on her face, to try and add sass, tried everything she could think of to please Them. And did this improve her scores? In fact, trying to mold herself into what judges wanted and compromising herself to do so, was detrimental to her performances. Suddenly, ‘no personality’ turned to ‘trying too hard’ and ‘she should smile more/show emotion’ morphed into ‘uncomfortable expressions’. She wanted a cigarette. She wanted something stronger.

The next girl to go on stood at the doorway. Brooke watched her with a combination of envy and awe as she readied herself for the ice. 

“Thank you, miss Carrion, for your performance,” the commentator’s voice crackled through old speakers. “Up next, Contestant number four, miss Violet Chachki!”

Chachki. Brooke felt a shiver roll up her back. Violet Chachki was everything she wasn’t. Everything she wanted to be. She was Brooke’s black swan. Where Brooke was perfect, had calculated grace, Violet was unexpected, drawing the viewer’s attention away from how her body readied itself for a spin, a leap, a twirl. Suddenly, the move just happened, in the blink of an eye. It was hypnotizing. Violet’s element of surprise was likely what had won her this very title last year. 

_You already won,_ Brooke sneered inwardly. _Why can’t you give someone else a shot at it?_

Every time Violet performed, for years that they’d been competing together, Brooke had tried stubbornly to not watch her number. She didn’t want to see Chachki steal the show. She didn’t want to already know her ass was handed to her before she even stepped out on the ice. And every time, she ended up enraptured by Violet’s performance. Just like everyone else.

Maybe it’s the two hours of sleep she’d gotten last night, or her period or just the reality of her last junior competition hitting her, but something possesses Brooke to look Violet in the eye as she steps off the ice, and when their eyes meet, Brooke realizes she’d started to cry.

Violet stops in her tracks, waiting to take off her skates. “You okay, Hytes?” She asks, sounding concerned.

A small part of Brooke fangirls that Violet knows her name— _duh, we’ve only been competing together for years._ But she shakes her head. “Just…” she motions with her hand, not knowing what she wants to say.

Violet arches an eyebrow. “Emotional about our last time competing as Juniors?”

Brooke is taken aback at first, but she guesses it makes sense that Violet’s her age. She nods. “I guess,” she says. “But also like, I can’t win today. Not against you.” _God, what am I saying?_

By now the next competitor goes out on the ice. Brooke and Violet barely notice. Violet does take Contestant Five’s spot on the bench, though. She starts to unlace her skates.“Girl, of course you can,” she reassures. “Your technique is killer, you just gotta get out of your head.”

Brooke stares at her blankly. “I don’t understand.”

Violet rolls her eyes. “You always have this look on your face when you’re performing— you’re not really _there_ in the rink, you’re in your head, with all your spreadsheets analyzing what you’re doing and what’s gonna come next.” She takes off one skate. “You just gotta, like, ‘fuck it’.”

“I… you don’t?” Brooke asks. “Do that? Think about everything you worked on and how you’re gonna execute… no?”

Violet is shaking her head. “No.”

Brooke lets out a humorless laugh and throws up her hands. “Then how do you win?!”

“Simple, really,” Violet says. “I don’t think about winning.”

“You don’t?”

“Not about the title or the prize money or being on TV.” Violet shakes her head. “When I’m out there, I’m alone on the ice, just _doing it_ like, to show off, mostly.”

Brooke has heard the ‘get out of your head’ speech before, but never had it struck a cord with her like it is doing when Violet is saying it. But before she knows what is happening, Violet is being ushered away, wishing Brooke good luck, and Brooke is being pulled to the doorway, pointed toward the rink, and her doom.

She doesn’t remember a single thing she did on the ice. She’s just made her way back through the door and she has no clue what she just did. She’s about to have a full meltdown, but the faces of her long-time competitors are bright and impressed in a way they haven’t been in the past. 

And when she passes Violet in the hall later, Violet calls her out to commend her good performance. Brooke is about to say she doesn’t even know what she did, but the words catch in her throat, and all she can do is nod a thanks.

And when her name is announced as Figure Skating Junior National Champion, Brooke has no words, only tears of disbelief and gratitude.

And when she takes her former competitors out for celebratory drinks later, she still can’t make a coherent sentence stark sober. So she tells Violet what she’s thinking with her actions.

And Violet kisses back.


	5. Pillow Talk With a Vampire (branjie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brooke is a vampire and Vanjie is a half-blooded pole dancer and Missy went experimental. Suggested by Cremlon. Huge shoutout to mollyroll for playing idea wall-ball with me last night

The first time I caught your scent, I sensed it would be a problem. I smelled not _you,_ but the imprint of you. And I knew I had to find you.

I was frantic, embarrassing, like a fledgling. Attracted the attention of security, so, I won’t be taking you on a date to Disneyland anytime soon.

Oh, you have a beautiful laugh.

That crowd was so full of people, from the Midwest to Mesoamerica to across the globe, I had no way of knowing… so I spent fourteen months searching. 

It’s a good thing wealth accumulates the longer you’re around. And you sense it, I have been around for a long time. 

Oh, you’d like to guess? Alright then.

Western Europe, pre 1950. Wow, little one, that’s a wide net you’ve cast. But you’re not wrong. First generation immigrant to the Americas? Yes, that too. I was among the first female settlers in French Canada. Slaves? We didn’t really do slavery per se, just vastly underpaid our fellow immigrants. And yes, that unfortunate mess of conflict with the natives. I have certainly… done things that would not pass current standards of morality, but our— or _my_ kind will always be playing catch-up with the ever evolving popular schools of thought. For the first couple centuries I saw, medicine was carried out by primarily illiterate men who who never washed their hands. 

I was brought up in a time of filth. Disease was everywhere. That’s how I was initially changed— a fellow noblewoman, those in certain circles knew of her… proclivities. Back then everyone knew everyone’s dirty secrets. You consult witches who let you talk to your dead husband, you like to defile young boys, or that you pay prostitutes to whip you with a riding crop. Madame du Farrá liked to keep young women in her company for a season. They would be returned to their families as skin and bone, often their minds would be altered; intelligent young women gone hazy. Sometimes they wouldn’t return home at all. But then, like I said, the country was rife with disease. And the Madame was so charming and apologetic on her house calls. She would always furnish a victim’s family with gifts for the rest of their years, professing her deepest regrets for the unfortunate loss of life. 

My mother was one of those maidens. Her talk of the Madame was always… overly kind. As if talking about a religious figure. Though if that was due to her charm as a vampire, or the debt my mother owed her, I do not know. You probably know the rose-colored lens through which our victims remember a feeding. 

But I digress. It was when I was young, old enough that I should remember, but do not. I came down with a fever that would not break, became dehydrated, and my mother felt that I was close to death. I may not have been an only child, but I was a favourite. So, my mother sent for the Madame du Farrá, and the woman came, and when she had gone, I was on the mend. 

Through my years, I was cold to the touch, and I never bled, which we lied about so I could find a husband.

What? No, bled like, not bled like injured, bled like womanhood.

...yes, like _la regla._

Anyway. So, because of that, when I was married, I was unable to conceive, which in the day was damning for a woman. I do not know what would have become of me if the revolution had not come. And if I had not fled. 

Our house was broken into, my husband, many members of our staff and family killed. I was injured, and I at the time had begun to understand my problems conveiving were related to the illness I had as a child. I had been meaning to visit the Madame for some time, and figured, since she lived far away from the peasant revolts, that she would be a safe haven. At some point on my journey, I crossed over. I had been in a state of vampirism for more than a decade, but you might know, vampires are undead, and I had yet to die. 

My time came, alone, in the woods. Wandering. I know I drank from the elk, from the deer and the squirrels and some kind of panther.

I walked through rivers of blood to reach my maker. I was unrecognizable when I followed the pull back to my dame, when she nursed me on her own blood for the second time. When I became complete. When I regained sentience.

What do you mean ‘what happens’? If you don’t reunite with your sire? Oh… well, when you’re first turned, you have only thirst, and a yearning for your maker. No personality, no real mind, you are an animal. You want blood, and you drink. But your sire’s blood feeds you back some semblance of humanity. But if you don’t get that… I have known people in the past who never met their sire, so it must be possible to regain yourself without, but I don’t know.

In any case, when I first caught your scent, it sent me back to that fledgeling place. The only thing I cared about was finding you, the draw to you was like the draw to my dame. But I lost the trail in the crowd, and I knew you weren’t there to begin with. So I went home, to my domestic. Yes, I do have-- or did have -- one of those, as you say, ‘blood whores’. She came to me, I didn’t create her. But that night, I came home to her and I ravaged her, and not like I just ravaged you, Vanessa. I dug my fangs in and I drank deeply, as I haven’t done in half a century, but I did. And by the time I was sated enough to return to my senses, she was a husk. 

What I did with her? She had asked, told me before, that when she died, she wanted to be returned to nature. So I took a hike with a human in a knapsack and I left her for the scavengers. Her bones may be found one day, but she’ll be among the hundreds who perish trying to climb their way into this land of the free. 

No, she didn’t die unmourned and forgotten. You… what?

Hm. Maybe one of these days I will take you there, let you touch the ground where she lay. If that would be what you want. 

Where I went on my search? I started with a road trip through the country, the middle of it. After those weeks, I started down the coast. I caught a whiff of you in Miami. Faded, a very old version of your scent, and the trail led nowhere. Some of your notes could be found in Puerto Rico, but that’s family lineage, and didn’t help me. I started down the Gulf, through the Bahamas, but summer was in full swing, and I sensed I was going in the wrong direction. So I called up another of my kind, one with the Sight, and I asked her to think of me and throw a knife at a map. She told me she already knew where I needed to go and that was Texas. That state means bad things for our-- _my_ kind. Oh? For you too? Then that will be your vampiric side. Or a coincidence, yes, that too. 

In my fear of Texas, I took a flight to Europe. I visited my dame, and told her what I was looking for. We keep company for a long while in the old country, and she still had her wards living with her; interns, they were now called. I drank from them, but my taste was troubled. I knew it was not what I was meant for. I took another trip, to the place where my home once stood; no longer. They erected some other building in its place. There, I dug myself a shallow grave and lay in it for a day. At dusk, I rose, with new purpose. 

I went back to America, and sat in shopping mall after shopping mall to try and catch you. For months on end, I turned up nothing, and was long beginning to question if it was all in my mind. Was I going senile in my agedness? Then, finally, I found you, two days ago in the Galleria. It was full of you, so many repeat visits--

It doesn’t matter when your last time at that mall was, your scent is so strong and paletable to me, your every return visit intoxicated me. I made a fool of myself, I’m sure. But I found your scent, and from there, I was able to get a clearer view of you. I walked the streets like a bloodhound, until I found your tucked-away workplace. 

I thought I might die at the smell of you, at the look of you, and you were moving, working that pole, that stage and that audience, and I saw you lower yourself into that man’s lap and I understood where your impression came from that first time. Your scent clung to his skin when he left, went home to his wife, took the family to Disney. And to think, you were here almost the whole time. Right under my nose.

But I’ve talked enough. Vanessa-- oh how I love to know your name with my mouth-- speak, _por favor, háblame de ti_ \-- tell to me what you thought of me when you saw me, and how you knew what I was already.

___

I dunno, your _kind,_ your people, if you _are_ people, like, I dunno you’re kinda obvious? Like I know other people don’t notice it, but it’s like a vibe I get, I always know. 

“When you see my eyes or when I walk into the room or when you get close enough to smell me?”

When you walk in a room, I get a kind of a shiver, right here, below this bone in my neck. Yeah, right there-- that’s where the spidey sense is. And like, the closer you get, the more I know. Plus your eyes was like, oof, I’m used to men lookin’ at me like a piece of meat, but you… that was different, you weren’t lookin’ at my body, like you was lookin’ straight at my soul.

“But you were unafraid of me.”

Yeah, ‘cause that lady I was tellin’ you about-- the one who taught me about these vampires and demons and shit-- she told me that half-bloods like me and her are more powerful than you, ‘cause we’re irresistible to you, so you won’t ever kill us ‘cause it’s unthinkable in your vampy brains. I’m like a god to you.

“Well, you’re not wrong. But you weren’t frightened or even concerned for so much as a second?”

Nah. 

“These thighs… so strong, to carry your weight around a metal rod.”

_Mmm._ yeah, keep treating me like a goddess, why don’tcha. 

“That’s the plan.”

Liked it when you talked French to me. _Hnnnng._

“I enjoyed your botched Spanish as well.”

Come again?

“I plan to. But it’s cute, in an annoying way, your inability to speak the language is charming.”

The FUCK you talkin’ about, white lady?!

“I know many dialects of most popular tongues, and your version of Spanish is unique in that it fails to be both South Florida Spanish, and Puerto Rican Spanish.”

And you know this because, what, you visited the island ONCE?

“I owned and managed land on the island for the better part of forty years, speaking directly to my employees and coworkers… I meant not to offend.”

Yeah, well… fucking make it up to me, then.

“Mm heh. _Como quieras, mi vida.”_

Can’t call me that.

“And why not?”

You’re not alive. Can’t call me -- ooh -- can’t be callin’ me ‘ _me vida’, vida_ is life, you’re dead.

“What should I call you then?”

Let’s stay with Vanessa for now. Cool?

“Mheh. Cool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh and my computer’s back btw. Working great. Not gonna quit this lil side project, but I will be able to get my multichaps back running


	6. Since I Can't Remember When (fame/pearl)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A depressed Fame wanders into a lounge where a woman plays the piano and sings soulfully. Their eyes meet and suddenly, the world is a little less grey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> obvious tw for mild depressed thoughts  
> suggested by Shmupool

New York is a disgusting place

The streets, the people, the attitudes, the very air is full of disease and impurity. The characters that walk these streets are even worse. Maybe Fame should have taken her mother’s advice, stayed closer to home. Then at least she’d be in the same time zone as the people she most wanted to call on days like this, when she wanted to just passively quit living. _It’s not suicidal_ , she reasoned. _I don’t want to kill myself, I just want to go to sleep and wake up… in a few years._ When something changed. When something got better.

This place is not good for her mental health. Is anyone in this city sane? Well adjusted? Is this why the east coast has an opioid epidemic going on? Everyone just wanting to tune out and… Fame couldn’t blame them.

She has to get out of this apartment.

She stuffs her ratty hair into a beanie, slips on shoes. She has enough energy to brush her teeth. It’s as close to a shower she’s gotten in nearly a week. Fame still longs for a nap afterwards. Her muscles ache. _A walk around the block,_ she tells herself. _I can commit to that. It’ll be more exercise than I’ve gotten in days._

Fame, how are you allowed to just rot on your mattress for days on end? Don’t you work?

_Not anymore._

She tells herself these hypothetical conversations are to prepare her for the stressful questions people will ask. She doesn’t tell herself it’s to fend off the crushing loneliness of being in an unfamiliar city with no friends mounting debt and no severance pay for the workers of an up-and-coming fashion house who were all inexplicably laid off due to what must have been record-breaking financial mismanagement.

She’s paid up until the end of the month. That’s eleven-ish days. At the end of that? Not a fucking clue. Homelessness? Get on a bus back home? Take a dive off the--

No.

Fame takes the stairs because she hates herself and needs whatever meager amount of oxytocin her brain will give her in exchange for the exercise. It’s going _down_ stairs and she’s still panting when she’s done.

It’s dusk when she steps onto the streets that are the bane of her existence. Remember when she thought the grit of the metropolis was charming? Ha.

Once she takes up a position in the herd, Fame feels better, safer. When she reaches the end of the city block, she decides to keep going. She takes a right after the second intersection, down a still populated street that she hadn’t explored yet. And it’s down this street that she hears a sound that warms her heart and makes her feel like a swaddled baby, safe, protected, cared for. 

> _Standing here so close to me_
> 
> _There’s so much--_

Fame pushes through the door without even thinking. It’s a small lounge. Looks like a remodeled Irish pub. There’s a single microphone hanging from the ceiling in the corner, not a foot in front of the face of the girl at the piano. The wire connecting the microphone to the speaker outside is visible all along the ceiling and wall, held in place by red electrical tape. Fame doesn’t know why, but it makes her smile. 

> _... can wait until some other day_
> 
> _Kiss me once, then kiss me twice_
> 
> _Then kiss me once again_
> 
> _Haven’t felt like this my dear_
> 
> _Since I can’t remember when_

She robotically tells a hostess she just wants to listen. Orders an ice water when the girl insists. Her heart is no longer in New York. She’s in her mother’s study, listening to old scratchy records, feeling ghostly arms wrap around her body in an embrace. She cries softly.

> _It’s been a long, long time_

And the girl at the Piano, Fame notices her now, because of how her vocal quality is different to the original. Noticeably different. The pianist’s voice has an amount of natural shake and gravel. Fame wonders if the girl smokes.

> _You’ll never know how many dreams I’ve dreamed about you_
> 
> _Or just how empty they all seemed without you_
> 
> _So kiss me once, kiss me twice_

The pianist is looking at Fame. It’s alright, the chords are simple and she knows them by heart. It’s not the first person she’s seen brought to tears in the presence of her playing. She is, however, the only one who has managed to cry while looking like an absolutely gorgeous mess. She offers the crying woman a smile, which seems to wake her from whatever daydream the music had triggered. Pearl keeps singing the serious, moody chorus over and over again, as was so the rage pre-1950. 

The woman’s face goes pink, and Pearl smiles. She casts a glance around the lounge. Slow night. The main crowd hasn’t gotten off work yet. She clears her throat. “I’m Pearl,” she says.

The crying lady answers, but quietly. Pearl lifts a hand from the keys to her ear as a signal. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“Caroline,” she answers. Caroline shakes her head. “Only my landlord and old boss know my real name in this city.”

“And now me.” Pearl smirks, transitioning into a playing different standard, though she has no intention of actually singing right now. “Why the change?”

“Something needed to.” Caroline scrubbed her arm across her nose. 

Pearl lets a beat pass, where there’s only the sound of her piano keys between them. “What were you thinking about?” she asked. “People who cry listening to music… usually they’re thinking about their past, or they’re just stressed and need a release.” She locked eyes with the woman Caroline. “So which are you?”

Caroline smiles slightly. It’s a tired smile, worn down. Her face may have been wrinkle free, but there was immeasurable age behind those eyes. “I guess a little bit of both.” She cleared her throat. “What about you?”

“What about me what?”

“Was it your dream to move to New York and become a lounge singer or are you waiting on a big break too?”

Pearl smiled and looked up at the ceiling before returning her gaze to Caroline. She rubbed her lips together, smearing nude gloss around. “A little bit of both.”

> _So kiss me once_
> 
> _then kiss me twice_
> 
> _Then kiss me once again_
> 
> _It's been a long, long time_
> 
> _Long, long time_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a songfic and the title is from the lyrics to It's Been a Long Long Time by Kitty Kallen.  
> What can I say? I'm a sucker for the jazz age


	7. Monsters Gotta Eat (Milk & Shangela)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an effort to ignore the buzz that Milk’s touch sparked, Shangela cleared her throat. “So,” she said, desperate to end the silence between them.“In all your immortal years, you never went for a hike?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features non-violent gore

****Suggested by Ustldoreqs: shangie is a vamp. Milk is a werewolf. Also inspired by a prompt from alloftheprompts on tumblr.

“Gawd, is it always this… icky?”

Shangela did her third eyeroll in the past ten minutes. “Thought you’re supposed to be tough, creature of the night and all that.”

Milk squealed when a tree branch Shangela had pulled back snapped in the vampire’s face. The dark haired immortal did that angry-pout that reminded her werewolf companion of a child. 

“I am tough,” Milk huffed. “Abandoned buildings. Dark alleys. Obstacle courses.” She swatted at a bug. “Fuck off! I don’t even have blood for you to suck!”

Shangela covered a snicker with a cough and reluctantly extended a hand to help the vampire up the trail. To her surprise, instead of swatting her away, Milk actually took her hand and let Shangela help her. 

In an effort to ignore the buzz that Milk’s touch sparked, Shangela cleared her throat. “So,” she said, desperate to end the silence between them. She and Milk were always bickering, and she needed to restore order. “In all your immortal years, you never went for a hike?”

Milk scoffed. “All my years— since the 90s?”

Shangela held up her palms. “Not once? Not a run to the top of a mountain and back? Doesn’t it get boring when you never sleep?”

Milk shook her head. “Why would I want to run to the top of a mountain?” she asked. “There’s nothing there.”

Shangela let out a frustrated noise. 

Milk ignored her. “Well if you’re asking, I have hunted outside before, but it’s never—“ she slid half a foot sideways on the shifting ground. After catching herself and trudging back into step with her partner, Milk continued. “But like, when I’m hunting, I’m at full sprint. You know? My feet hardly touch the ground, so theres none of this slipping and sliding ‘cause theres not enough time to trip over something.”

Shangela cast a look back to her. “All due respect, but that don’t make no goddamn sense.”

Milk let out a dry laugh. “It doesn’t, but I can’t explain it. Like, I dunno, don’t you have your wolf-self that has different abilities than regular you?”

“But you’re _always_ your vamp self!” Shangela protested. 

Milk shook her head. “Theres the regular me, which is like human me but now immortal and bloodthirsty, and then there’s the predator monster vampire me that kicks in when I’m hunting or other shit.”

“Well bitch if there’s a you that can get us to the gulch before tomorrow, you better call her ‘cause I don’t wanna spend a full day in a stuffy cave with you waitin’ for the sun to set again.”

Shangela was right. The nights were shorter this time of year, and it was usually in summer when Milk had gotten stuck somewhere in years past. “Fine,” groaned Milk. “Hop on my back.”

Shangela stopped in her tracks so hard little dust clouds rose up from her feet. “What now?”

Milk grabbed her hair and started twisting it into a loose braid so she could tuck it out of her face. “My back. Hop on.” She stuffed her hair down the back of her top. Milk was barely wearing anything (as usual) and her black stringy top was more fitting of a night clubbing than a trek to collect black market goods. 

“What are you waiting for?” Milk demanded.

Shangela blinked. “You wanna give me, a _werewolf,_ a piggyback ride to the dropoff?”

Milk nodded, her brows raised intensely. 

Shangela took a deep breath of fresh, wilderness air. “Sure,” she said to herself. “Why the fuck not?”

With that, she gripped Milk’s solid shoulders and hopped up, swinging her legs around to cross her ankles around Milk’s front. The vampire asked if Shangela was secure, and the werewolf only had half a reply out before Milk took off at the speed of a jaguar and hauled ass up the side of the mountain. “Fuck!” Shangela gasped. 

Milk came to a jog, which would have been any human’s top speed. “You good?”

“Yeah, just, fuck, dude.” 

“Real eloquent,” Milk snickered. “Ready?”

Shangela nodded. 

Milk got a wicked look in her eye and she looked back at her partner. “You better hol—“

Shangela pressed a finger to Milk’s cold lips. “Do not,” she said. “Do _not,_ quote _Twilight_ or I swear to God.”

Milk snickered mischievously for a moment before bulleting up the mountain once again.

Four minutes later, Milk sniffed out the hiding spot of their dinner. Five minutes later, she and Shangela were toasting their bi-weekly rations of sinful goodness. 

Milk moaned into the pint of human blood. 

“You’re dripping,” said Shangela, her mouth full of heart muscle.

“Thanks.” Milk took her mouth off the tab she’d made and went to work licking the rivulets of blood that had leaked out of her mouth in her haste. “I never get O negative anymore,” she lamented. “Like I know they need it and all, but God this shit is like heroin.”

Shangela tilted her head. “Have you _done_ heroin?” She asked. “Like, can you just like, _do_ hard drugs and be fine?”

“Depends.” Milk shrugged, going back to her dinner. After she’d drained the first bag, color rose to her cheeks and light came into her eyes like Shangela only saw happen after the vampire had fed. 

She used to be afraid when she saw Milk drink, but then, Milk was cool with her chowing down on hearts, so, different strokes. Shangela licked coagulated blood from her hand. “On what?” She asked.

Milk bit a hole into her second bag and sucked out enough blood so the bag wouldn’t leak while she talked. “Yeah I can take drugs,” said Milk. Blood stained her usually white teeth. “I can also tolerate poisons, so like, my body just doesn’t take damage that way, you know? Like I’ve done coke and amphetamines and mushrooms, just like, to see what they do. But I have to huff stuff, or smoke it, because my stomach just doesn’t process anything.”

Shangela had torn off the superior vena cava and managed to suck air through the blood vessel like a thick, gorey straw. The whistling noise that resulted made both monsters spit out their meals. 

Milk play-smacked Shangela while licking blood from her upper lip. “Fuck you,” she managed through fits of cackles.

Shangela held up her hands. “I’m sorry,” she panted, her eyes watering. “I didn’t think it’d work, I’m sorry.”


	8. This is an Emergency (Akeria centric)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for sickness related things like fever and pain and puking. In which Akeria hides her pain like the pageant queen she is until she's found out. Angst and sisterhood ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted to AQ in June of 2019. I thought I didn't want to post it here but there isnt enough akeria content so here you go

A'Keria was fine. Fine as hell, and she knew it. Her muscles sore from throwing herself around on stage last night. Her head hurting and guts rebelling against her even though she didn't  _ think _ she’d had that much to drink last night. She FaceTimed her nephew on his iPad. 

Before the race she hadn't believed in giving little kids fancy electronics. Then she saw her schedule and just how long she’d be away from him at a time. When she’d left for tour, he hadn't understood why she’d been crying. His sweet little eyes, wide and curious, taking everything in. His little thumbs wiping her tears away like she’d done for him. 

She went back to bed in her bunk, maneuvering a pillow-- the best gift a fan had ever given her -- to support her sore spots. 

_Damn Vanjie,_ A'Keria thinks, _probably gave me her crud._ She powers through the next performance, adrenaline numbing the pain temporarily. 

Asia clocked her immediately of course, pressing a hand to her forehead. “You’re not warm. Doesn’t mean you don’t feel good. You want a tylenol?”

Akeria took it, swallowing past Asia's warning not to drink tonight. She’d already made that call by herself. Akeria was ready for an early night. 

Halfway through the show, in the shared dressing room, Ra'Jah asks what she ate today. Akeria had popped a couple grapes for lunch and had half a piece of toast for breakfast. “I’ll be fine, just coming down with somethin’. Pro’ly the same shit got Vanj and Brooke Lynn.”

Nina’s brows furrow from her mirror. “That's been a while ago—“

“Then its all the strangers we hug and shake hands with every goddamn night!” She knows she snapped, and part of her feels bad, but, fuck, could people just leave her the fuck alone so she could do her job and go to bed?!  


RaJah's eyes flashed and she started to stand up, ready to fight, but Nina took the cue, and placed a hand on RaJah’s wrist. _Kiki isn't feeling well, keep a wide berth._

In true Nina fashion, she made sure to tell everyone to go easy around her. Akeria was grateful at the same time she was pissy. No, she wouldn't rather have Vanjie and Silky scream-laughing in her ear. Not when her head is pounding and she’s queasy as hell, but just because she wasn't at her best didn't mean everyone had to suddenly treat her like—

A'Keria curled onto her knees and hurled into a trash can. _Fuck,_ her stomach _hurt._ She wasnt wearing any hair, so when Whoever came behind her to place cold hands on the nape of her neck and rub circles into her back, they didn't need to grab a hair tie. 

“I hope it’s not something you ate,” fretted Scarlet. 

_Self centered bitch._ Akeria spat. “No.” 

“We can cover your second spot, you should go back to the hotel.”

Akeria sat back, taking deep breaths. She shook her head. “I’m good. This is work, I’ll finish the job and then I’ll go back… back to the hotel after my… my number.” Her thoughts were moving like sludge.

“I… think I’m gonna have to tell Asia.”

“Why.” Akeria snapped, her voice suddenly full of force, reminding Scarlet of the strong, capable man behind the face paint. “What’s it got to do with her?”

Scarlet’s jaw hung open like a dead fish. 

Suddenly, the dressing room door opened and the Current Fucking Reigning herself strolled in to see Scarlet kneeling next to Akeria on the floor in a room that smelled like barf. “Uhhh whats the tea, Christine?” Yvie asked Scarlet, side-eyeing Akeria nervously.

“She’s sick and doesn't wanna tap out of the show.”

A'Keria shot Scarlet a death glare. The New York queen held up her hands in surrender and rose up off the floor, returning to her place in front of the mirror to powder her nose, keeping a discreet watchful eye over the situation. Yvie shed some of her accessories and took Scarlet's place next to Akeria, who was trying to stand up but having trouble with her right side. 

Yvie’s blood ran cold. _Barf. Sweating. Nina’s warning. Pain on the right side._ But she couldn’t come right out with it. She could be overreacting. And what’s more, she knew Akeria. They were very similar in their attitudes about cancelling shows. In fact, most of the season eleven girls would rather pass out on stage than cancel a gig. So Yvie didn't try to convince her sister to cancel. She instead squatted down on her temperamental ankles, and asked Akeria to rate her pain.

Akeria had done the same for her, and the other girls. _Tell me how much it hurts, where, how I can help._

Akeria couldn't come up with a number, which caused further worry. If Akeria was rendered unable to think, it was bad. Yvie placed her at 7+ on her mental clipboard. “Where?”

“Like my whole left side.”

“Did it start on the left or did it move to the left?”

Akeria didn't have the brain power to change the conversation, demand why Yvie was asking all these questions. The nausea was back. Sweat fell in beads down her forehead. She answered through gritted teeth. “Moved.”

Yvie felt a heart palpitation. “Okay.” She made her voice  _ very _ calm. Very. Very. Calm. “I’m gonna try something and if it doesn't work, I’ll be one hundred percent behind you in going to perform like this. Okay?” Akeria nodded, her deep brown eyes imploring Yvie, begging her for some unspoken help.  


_Please don't hate me for this,_ Yvie prayed. She took her fingers and pressed into A’keria’s bare torso, just below her ribs. “That hurt?” Akeria pressed her lips into a fine line, but shook her head. 

Yvie moved her fingers to press in over Akerias abs. “Here?” Akeria shook her head.

Heart pounding, Yvie pressed her fingertips into Akeria’s tummy on her right side an inch or so above her navel. Akeria squeezed her eyes shut when Yvie pressed in, but when she released—

“AAAAAAAAAA mother _FUCK_ YVIE, WHY?!!”

Yvie pulled herself out of Akerias reach, afraid of getting a fist thrown at her easily bruising skin. While Akeria grunted over the trash can, Yvie made her way swiftly over to Scarlet to whisper, “Call 911. Say someone has acute appendicitis, with a positive bounce test.”

“A what?”

“The EMT will know what that means. Go outside to call them. Hallways in this building are too narrow, I’ll see if I can get her to the back exit. Tell Asia or Nina we need to cover for Kiki.”

Panting, and still on the floor, Akeria sneered. “What you saying about me, Yvie? You’re supposed to be on my side?!” 

Scarlet left the room, phone already pressed to her ear. 

Yvie rejoined her sister on the carpet and held out her palms. Akeria tried to get herself up without Yvie, but it was slow going and she had to break to throw up again. Yvie kept a straight face through the whole thing, which helped Akeria be able to focus on getting up.

When they finally made it out of the dressing room, Vanjie was coming down the hallway. “Uh, we got uh— KERIA!”

Akeria winced. Yvie motioned for Vanjie to come help support their sister, and together the two of them helped her to the back exit in time for Akeria to ask why they hadn’t brought her to the stage. 

“Girl, you’re fucking pale, bitch, you look like you aint seen the sun in years, you’re not okay to perform like this. What’s going on?” This last she addressed to Yvie. 

“I mean I’m not a doctor, but my mom got appendicitis when I was growing up and I’m pretty sure that's what Akeria has now.”

_ “Fuck,” _ Vanjie hissed. “People can die from that shit!”

“I what?” Akeria feverishly looked from Vanjie to Yvie. 

“That’s not gonna happen to you, help is on the way.” Yvie locked eyes with Vanjie as the sirens drew nearer. “Now the question of who goes in the ambulance with her.”

Akeria had a look on her face neither of her sisters had ever seen. Not when she was up for the crown, not when she was in the lineup being critiqued, never. She looked scared.

A square white van with flashing lights pulled around to the back of the club. While Yvie went over to flag them down, Vanjie held Akeria tight enough to leave bruises. Her throat felt tight. Akeria, this was _Akeria,_ Akeria who didn’t get sick, Akeria who didn’t show weakness, Miss Black motherfucking Universe! And her friend. Not just her drag race sister, but Vanjie felt a true, tight kinship to Akeria. 

If something happened to her... This appendicitis -- they should have caught it earlier. They could have, if anyone had paid attention, if  _ she _ had paid attention, her friend wouldn’t be slumped against the brick wall right now, having to be held vertical, covered in sweat, looking like she was about to hurl. 

Paramedics in navy uniforms jogged over with a stretcher. They eased Vanjie’s friend away from her. Feeling a pull in her chest, Vanessa knew what she had to do. 

Vanjie spun on her toes and sprinted in the other direction. She’d given her phone to a PA-- which one wheredidheputit? Fuck! She was yelling at people. It was an emergency. All Five feet six inches of her hurled at the blonde kid holding her phone. “Jeeesus what’s wrong?!”

Sprinting back to the dressing room to grab her flats, the Puerto Rican drag queen screeched: “MY SISTUH NEEDS ME!!”

She made it just in time to jump into the back of the ambulance with Akeria. Her sister’s makeup was fucked, her overdrawn lip trembling, her eyes leaking. Someone had had the good sense to take her lashes off. She had her boy hair out when Vanjie saw her and Yvie in the hall. She reached out, taking Akeria’s hand -- the one without medical stuff hooked in -- and wrapped it up in her own. “Hey, you’re good, you’re gonna be good, aight? This ain’t nothin’ to them, they do this all the time, only person I’ve ever heard of die of this uppended-dicks thing is that Harvey Copperfield guy, right?”

The young paramedic with freckles shot Vanjie a very confused look. “Who?”

“They guy -- the magician guy who had someone hit him in the gut and it broke his thing and he died?” She motioned toward her right hip.

“Are you talking about Houdini?” asked the older, grizzlier paramedic.

Vanjie snapped. “Yes! Him! And that was in what, 1930?” she turned back to Akeria, who had been starting to squeeze Vanessa’s hand as hard as she could. “See? It’s gonna be no problem.”

“You know,” started the cute, freckly paramedic. Vanjie tried unsucessfully to read his fancy name tag in the shitty lighting. “Surgeons really do emergency appendectomies all the time, so your sister is right in one thing.”

Akeria dug her boy nails into Vanjie’s flesh. Vanjie chuckled nervously and rubbed her sister’s knuckles. “Heh, hey now, no need to go all catwoman and all that.”

Akeria opened her eyes, which had been squeezed shut for the rest of the drive. Her voice came out scratchy. “I’m gonna throw up.”

Freckles had a kidney shaped bowl held up in front of her in record time. Vanjie wondered if they train for that -- quickest grab, quickest IV line, most even chest compressions. Nerves getting to her, Vanjie looked up at Freckles. “How’s she doing? What’s the…” she ran out of things to say. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

Freckles seemed to know what she needed, so he rattled off facts, that her abdomen was swollen, which Vanjie hadn’t wanted to admit she noticed. He said her temperature was elevated to 101.56 degrees Fahrenheit, which Vanjie knew was Not Good, that she had a positive Bounce Test, whatever that meant, that her heart rate was elevated. 

“So what does all that mean?” Vanjie asked. “I mean, I know you can’t say she’s gonna be okay ‘cause you don't know but like, ballpark it.”

Freckles looked to his superior, Mr Grizzly, then back to Vanjie. He seemed to take all of her in before he said, “I’ve seen people worse off come out of surgery and recover and be completely fine.” He glanced at Akeria, who was now panting. Back at Grizzly. Her temperature went up to 101.72. Something else changed on her monitor but Vanjie had no hope of reading what the numbers and wavy lines meant. Nevertheless, she could tell from the intensity in Grizzly’s eyes that it wasn’t good. 

Freckles got up to rifle through drawers. He opened a tiny fridge and pulled out a fancy ice pack, placed it on Akeria’s belly. Pulled out another and put it under her neck. He was fighting for her, that much Vanjie could see. He wouldn't do that if she was a lost cause, right? She shot a fearful look toward Grizzly not’t saying anything.

Grizzly said something into a radio. Vanjie swallowed hard, wondered where that barf bowl went. 

The ambulance rounded a corner, slowed down. Akeria let out a groan. Vanjie’s hand worked without her telling it to, reaching out to stroke her sister’s forehead. Akeria’s moans turned to whimpers and she seemed to grasp for Vanjie.

Hardly had their fingers intertwined before the men were in a rush on the move again. They were at the hospital, spouting medical jargon, unloading Akeria, rolling her away. Vanjie raced to follow, but once she was inside and saw her sister pass through a set of doors, there were hands on her shoulders, pushing her back. 

She only came around to realize her phone was vibrating, ringing in her hand. Silky. She had 3 missed calls and a flurry of texts.

Vanessa tried, but her fingers were shaking too much to type. For all her big talk in the ambulance, she was fucking terrified. Absolutely, completely, selflessly terrified. Her hands were shaking too much to type. She hit voice-to-text. 

**Me: Um. They they the doctors took her away. I’m not allah. I’m not they wouldn’t let me in I don’t gnome.**

When Silky replied, she didn’t roast any of the errors. All she wanted to know was: 

**which hospital. omw**  
  



End file.
